Sure
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: Oh, she knew. She knew because he told her. Once. Tenth Doctor and Rose, oneshot.


**Title: Sure  
Author: Random-Battlecry  
Rating: PG  
Pairing: 10/Rose  
Genre: romance  
Spoilers: er, best be familiar with up to beginning of season 3.  
Summary: Oh, she knew. She knew because he told her. Once.  
Feedback: is rewarded with jelly babies.  
Author's Note: Wrote this forever ago and forgot to post it here. I haven't read any stories that took this tack before; if anyone knows of any, mind pointing me towards them?**

* * *

"Because that's what gets me— what if they're really uninformed about the subject? What if they're meant to be getting on with what really matters in life and yet they're just not quite sure about what actually does? That's the trouble with philosophy, its so, its so— tenuous. Is tenuous the word I mean?" He scratched at the back of his neck, where his hair met his collar. "Vaporous. What's that word that reminds me of ghosts? Amorphous. Without shape. That's the trouble with students, too."

"Students are amorphous?" she said, raising her eyebrows.

He grinned. "Some of them are, depends on which university they're attending. Morally and mentally amorphous, anyway. Its true that they usually attend lectures— or rather, don't attend lectures— during their most formative years, and suppose their teacher is, I don't know, depressed or something? Every bad and cynical lesson he's ever learnt gets passed on to his students who then grow up to be, well, bad and cynical I suppose." He fiddled with a lever. "Meanwhile, these kids are the only ones left on this little planet and they're meant to be rebuilding an empire. It just gets to me, you see. The mismanagement of it all."

Rose wasn't sure how they'd gone from a conversation on the recently-exploded colony planet of Anchor to a conversation about the ethics of teacher-student relationships, but she'd long ago learnt to ride the flow of the Doctor's rhetoric, however confusing it got at times. He'd been a physics teacher not that long ago, so perhaps it wasn't all that surprising that children were on his mind. Or rather, the minds of children were on his mind; the fate and future of Anchor rested, quite literally, on the shoulders of the young people in the universities on the planet itself. She wasn't positive what chain of events led to everyone else being arrested; she only knew that the Doctor was in there somewhere, and that as a result of his very presence, they had quite naturally just barely avoided being arrested themselves. It had taken some fast talk on the part of the Doctor (not that he had any other kind) and fast footwork on the part of both of them to end up back in the TARDIS, watching the students being briefed on the situation by a few remaining faculty members.

The Doctor reached out a finger and tapped lightly on the viewscreen. Rose watched him closely; his eyes were a bit troubled, and he masticated his lip so vigorously that his lopsided dimple appeared in his cheek.

She grinned suddenly, and nudged him.

"Go on, then."

"Hmm?" He raised his eyebrows at her, not taking his eyes away from the screen.

"I reckon you can set them straight. 'Specially about amorphous thinking. And philosophy." She drawled the last word out teasingly, and grinned at him when he finally turned to her. He smiled back. The dimple deepened, then disappeared.

"'Course I could! In fact, I will." He straightened, tapping the viewscreen again and turning it back to default. "It won't take long. I've been around a bit— I'll give them a few pointers, is all, because if you want to successfully rebuild a civilization from scratch, you need someone's helping hand. Someone to tell you what to do, what not to do. Stay out of politics, for instance." He stopped and stared into space rapturously. "Imagine that, Rose— I could be directly responsible for the universe's first non-political planet. I might get a medal!"

She laughed and pushed him towards the door. "Get on with it, then. I could use a bit on my own, anyway."

He grinned widely once more and strode towards the door, pulling on his overcoat and turning back to her, waving an admonitory finger at her. "Be here when I get back."

"Promise," she said.

He disappeared out the door and she smiled fondly after him, trailing her fingers along the central console of the TARDIS as she walked towards the hallway. She'd been awake for eighteen hours at this point, and though she wasn't exhausted by any means, a hot shower and a sleep wouldn't go amiss. She paused in the open doorway of her room: and then, of course, there was the mess he'd left when he decided the heating console underneath her floor wasn't quite up to par, and had started working on it. Started working, and hadn't finished. Anchor had disrupted things.

Yawning, she started shoving things into the open hole in the ground. Bits and pieces of mechanics, parts of TARDIS workings, sheets of paper with Time Lordian scribbles on them— she shrugged, and continued on— a few pairs of shoes, some laundry— they'd get it all sorted out eventually.

In the meantime—

Her shoes and socks were off, her shirt halfway unbuttoned, and she remembered that she'd left her towel in the main room after the last shower (walking around with wet hair, he'd seen her, and said, "Don't you remember what I said about the heat? You ought to, whacking great hole in the floor of your room. Want to catch cold?" and hadn't left her alone till she'd given up and he'd helped her vigorously towel it dry). With a sigh, she meandered through the hallways, undoing her braids. The towel was—where had they left it— the towel was hanging on something or other—

"There you are," she said to it.

"Rose!" said a voice behind her.

She whirled around, one hand going up to clutch the undone buttons of her shirt together. "Doctor! You scared me out of half a year's growth, you did!" She shook her head. "I thought you were gone!"

"Gone?" He looked a little funny, a little bemused, a little— strangely— out of place. His hair is even messier than when he left, so he must have been thinking about some buggery subject or other. "Gone? I was— oh, that's right." He nodded vigorously, not looking away from her. "Talking to the kids. That's right. I— " He paused and, to show that once again he was thinking, plunged his fingers into his hair.

"Didn't take you as long as you thought?" she prompted.

"Nope!" he said. "They laughed me offstage, actually, they— er— philosophy is for people who can't think for themselves, they said, er, denial is just a river in Egypt, um—" Abruptly he removed his hand from his hair, crossed his arms, tilted his head slightly and said, "Rose Tyler, do you always look at me like that?"

She shook her head slightly in amused confusion, mouth open. "Like— what?"

"Like I've just grown a new head. Admittedly, sometimes that look is perfectly appropriate. Once, anyway. But did you— have you— do you always?" He tilted his head further and looked her up and down. "Sometimes you look at me like I'm clueless about the actual workings of the universe, which is as far from the truth as is possible to get, but you do it anyway. Sometimes you look like you wouldn't mind terribly if I kissed you. Sometimes you look like you're glad to have me there. But mostly, I'm afraid, I just remember you looking at me like I'm completely mad and, in light of a decision I've recently made, I would like to know if my interpretation of that look is correct."

He was looking at her a bit strangely himself, now, as though they weren't just together, as though he hasn't seen her in a month of Mondays. He was leaning against the central console and it was almost as though he was restraining himself from moving closer to her. He seemed to hold himself strangely still. His eyes were very direct, and she felt the full weight of his gaze on her, which sent a dull blush creeping up from somewhere down below to take possession of her neck and face.

"Er," she said, biting her lower lip. "Um, er— well— you are completely mad sometimes, you know that—"

"Granted, granted," he waved a hand at her. "As I said, sometimes the look is appropriate. Called for, even. But could you tell me, which of the reactions that I'd described is the most common? Of the choices, would you say?"

She closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened him, he was still there, that inquisitive, hidden, quivering-curiousity look still on his face.

"Um— what were the options again?"

He counted them on his fingers as he enumerated them again. "Clueless, kissing, glad to have me, completely mad." He folded his arms again and leaned forward to peer at her. "So?"

She thought about it, and nodded. "Well, I suppose I do look at you a lot like you're completely mad. I mean, we've been through a lot together, Doctor, and I can't tell you that that isn't what I'm thinking a lot of the time, but— " She smiled at him suddenly, because the ridiculousness of the whole situation had suddenly caught up with her. "Glad, I guess."

He raised his eyebrows. "Glad? Really?"

"Yeah." She nodded, and folded her own arms, mimicking his stance. "Glad to be here with you. Glad you're here with me."

A beat, a pause, and then that grin split his face in two (so enthusiastic, like his former self, but utterly different at the same time) and he shook his head slightly, side to side, as though in awe, as though in wonder.

"Rose Tyler, am I glad to hear you say so. 'Cause I'll tell you what—"

He advanced on her with quick long strides, and she had no time to react, no time to even unfold her arms, before he'd got her by the shoulders and his mouth was on hers. He bent slightly at the waist and gathered her up towards him; she unfolded her arms and slid them around and found that they were underneath the overcoat, underneath the suitjacket, and warm, and her fingers found the hard straight line of his spine.

She'd wrapped herself around him, and he let go of her and placed his hands on either side of her face, pulling back slightly and placing delicate, gentle kisses like petals on her face.

"Rose Tyler," he said, "I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you."

This wasn't to matter to her at the time, because it seemed so inconsequential when compared to what was really happening. She disentangled her arms from around him and wrapped them around his neck instead, arching up into him and capturing his wandering mouth with her own once more.  
So she felt his words now inside her mouth; swallowed them and they dispersed like flowers opening in a strange combination of rain and sun: confusion and perfection and the never-again-to-be-repeated sensation of the undeniable and, for once, undenied. Regardless of what happened, regardless of where they went from here, regardless of anything, she knew. Oh, she knew.

It wasn't quite enough at the moment.

He met her equally, tack for tack, till she bit a little too hard on his lower lip, when he squeaked and ducked his head down, diverting his mouth and her attention.

"Sorry," she said, helplessly.

"Bit overenthusiastic, aren't you," he grumbled into her neck, and the breath from her laughter stirred his wayward hair. She could feel him smile against her skin, and the first in a series of delicate nibbles that first led up and then led down, rounding the ball of her shoulder where he planted his mouth firmly and then pulled away with a pop, snickering.

"So," he began conversationally, but she had trouble concentrating because he was speaking so very close to her, and as invariably occurred when he spoke, she wanted to shut him up in the most effective way possible, except she knew from experience that it was impossible to actually shut him up when he felt like talking, and he always felt like talking, "sometimes the look is 'love it if you kissed me right now' isn't it?"

She grinned at him.

"Usually straight after 'you're completely mad,'" she confirmed.

He grinned back, and then his eyes quieted as he looked at her; he looked at her long until she grew discomfited.

"Everything all right?" she questioned quietly.

"Perfectly, oh perfectly," he assured her, "except in a moment or two I'm going to come through that door. Well, go out it first of course, then come back in. Listen. Do me a favor, will you?" He eyed her till she nodded, then gripped her hand and squeezed it tight. "Take the initiative."

She got the look she had so often, the one that said she didn't understand; but he couldn't put it any more simply than that, and taking a deep breath and another long look, he stepped towards the door leading outside, looking reluctant.

"Hold on a tick," he said, almost desperately, like a final promise, "I'll be right back."

He walked out the door, and it struck her suddenly that despite his words, he might never return. She might never see him again, and how would she know what had happened? He might be re-arrested. He might start another revolt. The students might decide to elect him president and not let him go.

But.

A moment passed.

The door opened, and he grinned at her from just outside it.

"Rose Tyler," he said, "have I got a trip planned for you! Struck me just as I was coming in. An event that should not be missed."

He began his typical bussing around, whirling and fiddling and pulling levers and yap yap yapping. She leaned against the central console, going back to watching him, watching his mouth in particular, and thinking hard.

He muttered to himself.

"London— near future—" and something about the Greeks.

But she was distracted by his earlier words. "Take the initiative." A very Doctor-like command. "Take the initiative, Rose Tyler." Not bothering to explain what he meant, and she could tell by his preoccupation (and the fingers in the hair) that it wasn't the time to bring it up again. Take the initiative— well, apparently they had an adventure to go on first. She ducked her head, passed her fingers lightly over her lips, and grinned. She'd do it later.

There was always later.

* * *

_"Worth it?" she asks him as he re-enters the TARDIS, and leans heavily against the door. He's breathing a bit hard, and there's a suspicious soppiness around his eyes though he's insisted before that he does not cry._

He breathes in deep and exhales long a few times, then nods.

"Worth it."

She's making an effort to appear busy, messing about with things she wouldn't normally touch. "Everything you expected and more?"

"I thought she'd always known," he said, "but suppose she hadn't?" It was a rhetorical question; he was barely aware that Martha was even there. He moved across the room, dreamily, came across to the central console and stared deep into the bluelight there.  
"Dangerous to muck about with personal timelines, isn't it?" Martha asked him. "Except for cheap tricks, you said."

"Always dangerous," he told her, or told the TARDIS, or told himself, "because its hard to make yourself come back." He stared hard for another long moment, and then looked up suddenly; the light hit his face and she could see that, whatever had gone before, he was no longer crying.

"Its better to be sure," he said.


End file.
